Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air); 'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. I. 3. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Robed in the sable garb of woe, (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air); "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. I. 3. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain |